Stardust In The Blood
by IsomorphicTARDIS
Summary: (/watch?v ztZMNoqOIkA) AU. After being trapped and tortured the Doctor's human side is removed, leaving only his darker self behind. Slowly the Doctor transforms into his Darker alter-ego, he begins to lash out, scaring Amy and Rory. The Doctor cannot stop this transformation, and must choose to either save the ones he loves, or take them down with him.


**UGHHHHHH I swear, if I start ****_one more fic_**** ... *Death glares at hands* Anyway, this popped into my head, and naturally, my fingers agreed with my brain, procrastinating as long as they can from writing my other stories. Does anybody have, like, a potion or something that would help with this? No?**

** Darn.**

** Anyway, I'd love if you reviewed, told me what you think, y'know. I would ****_not_****, however, appreciate if you rubbed in my face the fact that I don't actually own Doctor Who. That counts as a disclaimer, right? Okay.**

** R&R!**

* * *

It wasn't long.

It had only been a couple of months, some amount of weeks, who knows how many days, let alone hours, minutes, seconds. He did know, in fact, how long he had been in the room. A total of seven hours, forty-six minutes, and twenty-seven seconds in _this _room, where he was supposed to be sleeping.

Ten hours, fifty-two minutes and fifteen seconds in the room down the hall, two turns right, one turn left, and three hundred and sixty-seven steps in all.

Seventeen minutes, eight seconds, and thirty-nine milliseconds were spent traveling through the halls, but he's gotten quicker each time.

He's been in here for four months, eighteen days, five hours, twenty-six minutes, six seconds, and forty-five milliseconds. He knows this, because it's all he's ever allowed to know.

They've blinded him – whether temporarily or permanently he doesn't know, but he can't see either way. They've blocked his senses of smell and taste as well. All that's left is his hearing and feeling, and those have magnified to heights so high, he wishes they would dissipate as well. They don't tell him anything, other than "Walk," or "Stay still," or insult him with words mashed together, forming sentences, accusations he doesn't have to listen to repeatedly to know by heart.

They've given up on giving him any type of drug – his body metabolizes it too quickly for it to have any effect. So, they strap him down on a metal table, careful as they mind his head, and test him.

He doesn't know why they're 'testing' him, he just figured it out that they were when he saw a couple of people in lab coats passing by before his sight vanished. Before they took it away. It would make the tests easier, he overheard.

It doesn't stop him from feeling along the edges of the metal table, finding a suitable crevice where scratches have been placed, so that he can mark his own. He finds a suitable place, and inwardly smiles, testing the hard metal against his soft, brittle fingernails. Soft, but they don't break. Not since they put him on the table for the first time. It doesn't make much sense. Although, nothing else seems to make sense, anymore.

He has long since passed the point of reason – every day is the same. No matter what actions he takes, what things he says, they always treat him the same, and, if anything, it confuses him. He had thought they were humans at first, and he was revolted by what they had shown him, what they were going to do to him. Now, though, he's not sure. The drugs they had used, and the equipment suggests a time and place far from the human race. He's not sure whether to be happy or sad about that. He decides on a compromise, ignoring the pain jolting through his body and instead counting farther and farther. He doesn't know when his friends will come.

He doesn't know if his friends will come.

He doesn't know if anybody will come.

He doesn't know if he even has friends, anymore. He seems to be all alone.

He does remember one thing – the four words he heard in the beginning, still hear now, still echo in his head every second of every minute of every hour of every day –

"It's all your fault."

And he believes it.

He sleeps.

* * *

"Doctor? Doctor, wake up. Up you get, you big, lazy lug. Time to start the day."

The voice is female. Definitely. Short, about five and a half feet, judging by the vibrations in her voice. Long, straight hair – ginger, by the smell of it – that curls around her shoulders. Boots, clicking against the metal floor of the TARDIS, and the Doctor finally catches up with reality.

Amy.

His eyes snap open and his spine straightens automatically as he jolts up in bed, the covers rolling up and creating more wrinkles than where Amy is leaning on the side, looking at him with one raised eyebrow. He smiles, and narrows his eyes as Amy giggles, putting a hand on her mouth to muffle the sound. She's looking at a point just above his eyes –

Oh.

He blushes, hastily batting his hair down into a somewhat sturdy-looking position, not needing a mirror to know that he still looks like he went through a car wash. He sends Amy a playful glare, saying defensively, "It doesn't always do that!"

The other eyebrow skyrockets, and the Doctor finds himself jumping up from the bed and ruffling Amy's hair. She screeches, and, naturally, Rory himself pops into the doorway, ready to take on any threat with two steaming hot mugs of tea. His face morphs from a prepared expression to one of irritation, and the Doctor laughs, sprinting to the entrance to entrap Rory in a bear hug, the mugs of tea barely surviving the impact.

Amy laughs as well, and prances over to the two men. "Now we _all_ look like we're having a bad hair day," she says, taking a mug from Rory with a nod.

The Doctor steals the other one with a short, "Thanks, Rory." Soon after taking a sip, however, his face scrunches up in disgust and he spits it back into the cup, handing it back to Rory before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"That," he says, pointing accusingly at the mug, "is disgusting." Rory rolls his eyes, turning to pour the rest of the tea in a nearby sink, muttering, "there goes another one."

Amy smiles, offering Rory her cup while rubbing circles on her husband's back. She directs her attention to the Doctor. "Well, go on, get dressed. River told us she wanted to see you, and I might add, she didn't sound too happy." She smirked at the fear that flicked across the Doctor's face for an instant, but then he bounds behind a changing screen and walks cleanly to the other side, coming back into sight in his usual outfit. He's smiling, and Amy counts the morning as a win.

They all head back through the halls toward the kitchen, Rory going on about him not being sure about what to get their friends back home when they celebrate Amy's birthday. Amy interrupted quite a bit, mentioning more than once that it was _her_ birthday, and that no one else needed anything. It was the point of a birthday celebration that only the birthday person got gifts.

However, Amy, although she was full in the conversation with Rory, kept an eye on the Doctor. She frowned, watching him look down at his feet and move his mouth, apparently counting his steps. He flinched at Rory's mention of 'back home', and Amy felt a surge of guilt. She silenced Rory with a hand around his waist, and said, "Doctor?"

His head snapped up, and a familiar smile creased his face. "Yes, Amy?" he said, clasping his hands together and looking closely at her face. She didn't miss the way he occasionally glanced down at his feet. What was she thinking? What was she supposed to say now?

"What number are you on?" she blurted out, and gave a concerned intake of breath as the Doctor froze in his tracks, his eyes shifting and locking onto his shoes. He shrugs, but continues walking, not looking up again as he says, "three hundred and seven." There's a moment of silence, and the Doctor speaks once more, notably keeping his voice from wavering, despite the certainty in his words.

"Two turns right, one turn left, and three hundred and sixty-seven steps. She fixes it for me." Amy's eyes crinkled in concern, and she filed it away in the 'think about later' part of her mind. For now, though, she places a calm, sturdy hand on his back, smiles when he leans into her touch, and says, "She really does know how to make you feel better."

The Doctor smiles again, looking up into Amy's eyes, and Amy feels a spark of hope. "Yeah," he finally says. "She really does."

They eat a few bites of a warm breakfast amongst a heated argument about who's turn it is to clean the deep end of the pool and why it always seems to be Rory's turn.

The Doctor is silent throughout the entire breakfast. Amy worries, but says nothing about it. The day continues with many an adventure and soon, his silence is forgotten.

The Doctor sighs as he leans back into bed, wondering if there ever was a time when silence was an indicator of something wrong.

He doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

At first, Amy was too relieved to notice anything different about the Doctor, especially when she finally had him back in her arms, both of them wrapping around each other like vines on a tree. The intensity of his hugs wasn't the only thing she noticed that had changed, though she didn't complain about it.

She should've (did) expect a few differences of before and after, what with the poor Timelord having been missing for months, with aliens doing who-knows-what to him, strapping him down, and 'testing' him, whatever that meant.

When Amy, Rory and River went (rushed) to the facility (laboratory), they burst in with guns a-blazing, totally against everything the Doctor had taught them. They disregarded his 'rules' for now, as said Timelord was the reason for such drastic measures. They had only hoped he would be well enough to scold them about it.

He eventually did, but only a few days after they rescued him.

Amy was grateful when he finally shook himself from his blank gaze with a disgusted look on his face. His head snapped up, gaze locking onto hers as he said rather bluntly, "You killed them." Amy nodded, not having to think for a moment about the question, and not denying the accusation one bit. "They were killing you," she said softly. He shook his head.

"Please. Promise, next time, you won't kill anybody," the Doctor said, bowing his head slightly while his eyes kept their connection with hers, a sliver of desperation crawling into his irises almost hidden behind his mop of hair. Amy sighed.

"There won't be a next time, Doctor," she said, ignoring the implied meaning behind his unsaid words that she could still _hurt_ them, if she didn't _kill_ them. However, the Doctor just shook his head, walking up to her and gripping her shoulders in his (unusually cold) grasp, searching her eyes for sincerity. "Promise," he pleaded.

She promised.

Amy never really found out what they were doing to her favorite alien – never found out what they did. Sometimes she got a sneak peek, when the Doctor was in a particularly open mood. Other times, she would shake him vigorously with wild eyes as he thrashed in his sleep, whimpering, and finally shooting up to place his fingers on her temples, and she would _see_. She would _understand_.

Amy never particularly liked those times.

From that point on, she would always brace herself, always prepare herself for a mental assault, never on any of her senses, but just in her head, in her mind.

The first time it happened, the Doctor wouldn't stop apologizing, his eyes deliberately shying away from hers. After getting over the initial shock, she snapped, "Stop it." The Doctor fell silent, though the obvious guilt shone clearly on his face and he finally looked up at her with shining eyes. She bit her bottom lip, immediately regretting her tone. "Please," she amended, "Please don't apologize."

Neither of them slept any more that night.

Every night became more and more of a routine, a pattern for them to follow that kept them somewhat sane with each passing day. The day would pass on, Amy noting differences in the Doctor, Rory being obliviously and immensely helpful, and the Doctor attempting with each second to move on, and return to his normal self.

Then night would come, the couple walking with the Doctor to his room, where he thanked them, apologized for reasons (still) unknown, and shut himself in his room. The couple wished him goodnight and walked on.

Amy and Rory would lie in bed for a few minutes, Rory talking mindless babble until Amy was ready to talk. When she did, she talked about her fears, about what she missed, about how she was slowly putting pieces of a puzzle together about the Doctor with an increasingly disturbing final picture. Rory would nod, concede all of the points he agreed with and reassured his wife whenever she would worry too much. She thanked him every night, and he brushed it off with a "That's what husbands are for." She kissed him and told him that's not all.

Meanwhile, the Doctor would take the nine shorts steps, four long strides to his closet to change into his pajamas, moving his arms and legs in a clockwise order, then walking the two paces over to his bed, hospital corners wrinkling slightly as he slid silently under the navy blue covers. He didn't close his eyes until the TARDIS' humming filled his head, blotting out any and all thoughts and filling the persistent, empty silence. Only then would his eyelids flicker and close, his consciousness drifting until he fell into an oblivion.

Amy would wake up somewhere around 3:00 a.m. Earth time, padding down the halls in her bathrobe with two steaming hot cups of tea to end up at the Doctor's bedroom.

Sometimes, the Doctor would be deathly still, not moving an inch as he lay in his bed, and Amy took those times as a good sign – it meant he wasn't having another nightmare that would take hours for him to come out of. These times, Amy would sit by his bed, sipping her cup of tea until Rory would come by a few minutes later to check on her. She would smile, hand him the second cup, and they would make their way back to their bedroom as silently as they could.

Sometimes, they weren't so lucky. Amy would wake up at 3:00 a.m., not to whimpers, or odd noises, or screams. Instead, the normal, natural humming of the TARDIS would become lower, slightly more depressed, and less comforting. Amy would jump out of bed, hurry to the kitchen, grab the tray with tea on it with a mental thanks to the TARDIS, and practically run to the Doctor's bedroom. Inside would be a Timelord, usually curled up to make himself as small as he could be under a thin layer of cotton, whimpering and jerking in his slumber. At these times, Amy would soften and smooth out her movements and features into a calm and collected persona, moving slowly and carefully as she set the tray on the bedside table, picking up one of the teacups and wafting the smell over to the Doctor. For some reason – one she wasn't so sure she ever wanted the Doctor to tell her – he always reacted badly to any kind of different smell.

Tea, however, could calm anyone down. Even a distressed Timelord as he dreamed of horrors even Amy couldn't imagine. And, eventually, the Doctor's breathing would even out, his arms splayed out on the bed while the rest of his body fell into a relaxed position. Amy would cautiously slither a hand to the back of the Timelord's neck, squeezing gently and rubbing small circles on the tense muscles.

Rory would come in after a few minutes, taking over wafting the tea's smell so that Amy could focus purely on massaging the Doctor's neck, then shoulders, and, eventually, the small of his back. She never went any further, and for that Rory was eternally grateful. Amy only smirked at Rory's doubt at her loyalty. He would learn, soon enough.

After all of this, it would take time, sometimes minutes and sometimes hours for the Doctor to finally relax completely. The couple were always rewarded the next morning with breakfast from the Timelord and an oddly convenient error in the system, causing the ship's traveling to be delayed.

If they caught up with their sleep in that time, so be it.

But, despite the outrageous time slots and techniques of comfort they offered each other, the routine became the norm, and the norm was never once changed.

Sure, they may never become accustomed to this new, more emotionally open Doctor, but they would certainly be with him all the way. And finally, for human and Timelord, life was normal, and life was good.

Until it all went to Hell.

* * *

***DUN DUN DUN* Hoild on a moment. This font is not the same. Oh God, no. IGnore it, brain, ignore it. Anyway, like it? Hate it? Tell me. Now. I command you. **

** Seriously, feedback is important to me. (It warms that little sliver in my heart that isn't completely ice) I would love if you told me what you think. Thanks for reading! R&R!**

** ~IsomorphicTARDIS **

**P.S. This idea was taken from a _really really really_ good video, which can be found right about here:**

** watch?v=ztZMNoqOIkA**

**I sincerely hope that works, because that is _amazing_. And, hopefully, I can do it _some_ kind of justice.**


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